Given Right
by EnvysMistress
Summary: Sudicial!Sherlock with MotherHen!John. Preslash Johnlock. Warning: Character death. T for subject material. Songfic: If Today Was Your Last Day by Nickleback.


_My best friend gave me the best advice_  
_He said each day's a gift and not a given right_  
_Leave no stone unturned, leave your fears behind_  
_And try to take the path less traveled by_  
_That first step you take is the longest stride_

"Sherlock! Put that down!" The aforementioned idiot savant stared up at his flatmate from the tiled bathroom floor. In his hand was a medical grade scalpel and his write was bare of all but scars and fresh blood. John knelt beside the other man. "Sherlock..." The army doctor sighed as he took the scalpel away and wrapped it in a handkerchief.

"John!" Sherlock barked. "That was mine!" The man-child whined. John, being immune to the childish fits that the genius went through, ignored him and undid the tourniquet. He carefully inspected the cuts on Sherlock's wrist and wiped it down with alcohol before placing a pressure bandage on it.

"Sherlock," John said, grasping his friend by the shoulders and staring him in the eyes, "You need to promise me that you will not do this again. Understand?"

Sherlock refused to look at John. "I can't promise you that, John. You know I can't."

John's shoulders slumped. "Fine. Then, at least come and talk to me first. That way if something goes wrong, I can help." He stared a moment longer before standing and helping Sherlock up. "Sherlock. Life is... Life is a precious thing. It isn't something to be taken lightly, to be thrown away at the flip of a coin or the toss of a hat.

"Sherlock," John took a deep breath. "You are brilliant. The smartest man in the UK. No, the world. You can and have done amazing things. You've saved so many lives and asked for little in return. Let me help save yours."

_If today was your last day  
And tomorrow was too late  
Could you say goodbye to yesterday?  
Would you live each moment like your last?  
Leave old pictures in the past  
Donate every dime you have?  
If today was your last day_

Sherlock eyed the surgery drawer, the one Molly used for her autopsies. It was calling him. Well, rationally, it wasn't; it was an inanimate object, and, therefore, could not speak. But the pull to open it and steal a scalpel was overwhelming. John and Molly chatted, unaware of Sherlock's inner turmoil.

He pretended to be taking his time observing the sample under his telescope, but he'd figured out the suspect's disease a day ago. The man could not have been the culprit. His bones were weak from Paget's Disease. His spine was swollen and by the way he walked, it was clear that the nerves were pinching. There was no way he could have lifted the victims and strung them up by their feet...

Which led back to his boredom and the desire for the momental clarity that cutting gave him. But it would disappoint John. Sherlock absolutely did not want that. The way John's eyes would did, his shoulders hunched. He would collapse in on himself, yet be physically more open than usual. His mouth would frown in a way that forced his forehead to imitate the sides of his lips. John's nose would scrunch up and flare simultaneously and seem to also glare. This might look like disgust to the majority of the mundane, mainly because they could not deduce, but to Sherlock, who knew everything about John, it was the picture of displeasure. Sherlock never did well when he knew that John was disappointed with him and his actions.

_Against the grain should be a way of life  
What's worth the prize is always worth the fight  
Every second counts 'cause there's no second try  
So live like you'll never live it twice  
Don't take the free ride in your own life_

"Hello, Sherlock." Mycroft, that insufferable older brother who held a 'minor position in the government' yet could single-handedly stop a war in its tracks, sat in John's armchair, umbrella leaning against its side, ankles crossed. "You took your time."

Sherlock glared at Mycroft. "Get out of John's chair." He glared a moment longer, then turned to the kitchen to check on his latest experiment. He was testing the most a human tongue - belonging to a middle-aged male who was allergic to bees - could swell up, by using bee venom. It would help solve a cold case, if it took.

"Sherlock. You are being childish." Sherlock ignored his brother, who had meandered into the Holmes-Watson Kitchen. He set the swollen tongue on the table, upon a petri dish. "Look at me when I am speaking to you!" Just as the world's only consulting detective was going to make an incision with one of the few tempting scalpels in the flat, John walked in. His sight narrowed on the scalpel, and, assuming the worst, he rushed forward and seized it from the genius' hand.

"Sherlock!" John scolded. Both leasers of 221B Baker Street ignored The British Government as he spluttered at the duo. "We talked about this: No scalpels are to be used without the supervision of myself, or another doctor or scientist. It's for your own good," John added softly.

"Dr. Watson, I am sure my brother is mature enough to handle a scalpel as he has been doing so since he was a prepubescent." Mycroft stared hypnotically at the army surgeon. "Though he is oftentimes immature, I do believe he has no need to be babied."

Sherlock blushed angrily at his brother's words. "I am not a child, Mycroft. Have you put on another stone since we last met face-to-face?" Mycroft harrumphed in embarrassment.

"Sherlock, apologize!" John reprimanded him.

"I am truly sorry, Mycroft," Sherlock enunciated sincerely, "Sorry that you are such an annoying prat of an older sibling."

"Sherlock! Mycroft was being civil; there was no excuse for you to insult him." John strode over to the stove with the scalpel, dropped it in a boiling pot specifically set aside for sterilization, and started the stove up while pouring water into the turned back to the arguing siblings when he was done with his task. "Now, Sherlock, you will wait to cut open that...tongue-Oh, Lord; what have you done to it!"

_If today was your last day_  
_And tomorrow was too late_  
_Could you say goodbye to yesterday?_  
_Would you live each moment like your last?_  
_Leave old pictures in the past_  
_Donate every dime you have?_  
_Would you call old friends you never see?_  
_Reminisce old memories_  
_Would you forgive your enemies?_  
_Would you find that one you're dreamin' of?_  
_Swear up and down to God above_  
_That you finally fall in love_  
_If today was your last day_

John smiled as he placed the last photo in the scrapbook. It was of the previous case he and Sherlock had gone on. John had shown a rare snippet of brilliance, something even Sherlock had overlooked, and they were having a good laugh at the sheer absurdity of him being smarter than the detective genius. Lestrade, seizing the moment (and Anderson's camera), had snapped the candid photo. The childish, brilliant man had no idea, as far as the soldier knew, that there was a scrapbook; the blog was fantastical enough, in Sherlock's view.

The army surgeon flipped to the beginning of the book. It was a picture taken by one of the Forensic Flunkies of the first case, The Study in Pink. John and Sherlock were both kneeling next to the woman, studying her body, John looking extremely perplexed.

The next photo was of the two of them at Angelo's that very same night. Angelo had given it to John the next time that they'd eaten there. Sherlock was looking out the window in his usual boredom, whereas John was trying to find what Sherlock was seeing with a squinty glare.

"John," Sherlock grinned as he flounced in, "We have a ca-! What is that?" John looked up to see his flatmate staring at the hurriedly closed scrapbook.

"It's a scra-"  
"I know that it is a scrapbook, but what is it about?" Sherlock looked frustrated at not knowing something. John smirked; Sherlock would never grow up.

"Lestrade, Angelo, Mrs. Hudson, Mike, Molly and Mycroft have been taking photographs of you and I and giving them to me. A few of our clients have, as well. I turned the stack of them into... This." With that, he handed Sherlock the book.

Sherlock opened the book. There was no title page, no beginning, except for the fact that the picture was from the first case they had gone on together. Flipping carefully through the album, Sherlock noted that under each photo was a caption. One of them, for example, was of John and Sherlock at the hotel in Belgravia.

'Sherlock made me tea. That was poisoned with hallucinatory sugar. Thanks... I still love you, anyway.'

"John, this is..." For the first time since they had met, Sherlock showed some real emotion, not a mask, choking up on it.

"I know."

_If today was your last day  
Would you make your mark by mending a broken heart?  
You know it's never too late to shoot for the stars  
Regardless of who you are  
So do whatever it takes  
'Cause you can't rewind a moment in this life  
Let nothin' stand in your way  
Cause the hands of time are never on your side_

Sherlock huddled under his covers. He felt like sleeping, knew his body needed it because of his slowed reaction time, but could not seem to drift away into fantasy as usual. He was thinking of the scrapbook, John would be absolutely devastated when he finally went through with his...suicide. The soldier would also be disappointed, though it wouldn't be a state the genius would have to deal with and confront.

It was almost time; Sherlock could feel it. Moriarty would be furious. The consulting criminal would have nobody of similar caliber to go toe-to-toe with. Mrs. Hudson would grieve; she had come to be a better mother than Mummy had. Sherlock would miss her. He wouldn't miss Donovan or Anderson, however, and the feeling would be mutual. Lestrade would find comfort in his lover, Mycroft. Molly and John would hold each other up.

In the end, John would survive.

_If today was your last day  
And tomorrow was too late  
Could you say goodbye to yesterday?  
Would you live each moment like your last?  
Leave old pictures in the past  
Donate every dime you have?  
Would you call old friends you never see?  
Reminisce old memories  
Would you forgive your enemies?  
Would you find that one you're dreamin' of?  
Swear up and down to God above  
That you finally fall in love_

Sherlock stood on the rooftop of St. Bart's, staring down at John, who had just clambered out of the cab. He had a choice; Molly had helped him devise a plan to fake his death, but death would be such a sweet welcome. He wouldn't have to hunt down Moriarty's men because his death would end their purpose. Lestrade would be safe. Mrs. Hudson would be safe. Molly would be safe.

John would be safe.

That was the thought that decided it for him. He held an unhealthy amount of protectiveness inside him for the rugged ex-soldier. Mycroft held his will; everything would go to John.

"Goodbye, John." The suicidal genius spoke softly, tenderly. He threw his mobile behind him and stepped off the ledge, falling.

Now that it was too late, thoughts came unbidden to his mind of what-could-have-been. He imagined curling up with John in front of the fireplace, the other man reading a novel while he would be solving one of Scotland Yard's cold cases. The two of them dancing on Christmas Day at Mummy's Yule Ball. Counting down to New Years', then celebrating with a kiss.

And then all of those thoughts were gone with a _smack._

_If today was your last day_


End file.
